


Even Death is an Ineffective Painkiller

by FrogSpawn



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Abstract, Drug Abuse, Exploitation, FUCK, Hell, Hurt No Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, It's a complete rip off, M/M, No Romance, Overdose, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Spoilers, Stripping, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27460804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrogSpawn/pseuds/FrogSpawn
Summary: Repeating. The attention was a drug. It was addictive. He hurt for it. He hurt so much for it.
Relationships: Angel Dust/Valentino (Hazbin Hotel)
Kudos: 15





	Even Death is an Ineffective Painkiller

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just a write up of Angel Dust's part in the 'Addict' music animatic, for Hazbin Hotel. If you haven't seen it, then do that first. It's incredible. For some reason, despite me not having experienced all of the things in that video, I just felt it. It made me feel something, I don't know what, but something. I couldn't not write about it. I needed to write this. And I don't know why I'm posting this, but I hope you guys enjoy it.
> 
> Unedited, and it's supposed to make huge amounts of sense.

Their eyes felt like pin-pricks, piercing, needles that ejected adrenaline into every part of his body that they stared at with predatory hunger, making him move slower, more sensually, soaking up the high that the enraptured audience was providing. His chest heaved harder as his body rolled to the music, arms shaking ever so slightly as they held up his weight on the pole. Nobody could tell, except the eyes at the back. The never ending pits that sparked the creation of black holes in his throat and stomach and legs. But the way the others were staring, like they wanted to eat him. His clothing was revealing, displaying all of him, sweaty and pale. He felt like he was dying, breathing heavily, as he soared through the ceiling, clouds flashing past his face like memories of his life he would much rather repress and forget. The same experience as jumping off of a tall building. Instead of those thoughts taking over, he smirked seductively, licked his lips and rolled his hips against the pole, tilting his back and gasping out into the sweltering room.

It ached. It was empty, and pain was echoing through the empty chamber. He felt stiff, and exhausted, too exhausted to cry. Like he had been wrung out and had nothing left to release the numb aching echoing pain that was his being. His eyes were sore, the light stabbing them with needles. He wished he had a needle. Had it only been half an hour? Who knows, because he could still hear the thudding of his shoes walking to and fro from his room. Maybe it was someone else. He glanced in the mirror, but all he could see was his red-streaked face pressed up against the table before it, never ending pits of agony and deserved torment staring at the same image along with the sick pistoning of hips. He shook as he looked away, to the cockroach that scuttled across the floor to investigate and then drag the empty can back underneath the bed. The door opened, and it was cold, allowing the freezing air to drift into the room and prick at his skin. Cold, that was something. Ache and cold, aching cold. He shivered from his undressed state. There was a groan as someone sat behind him, and a hand in his hair. Maybe he had enough moisture in him to cry.

Wet sucking and sighs filled the car. The body that he was pressed up against was icy, even the faux fur drew all heat from him. Others were licking at their employers lips, or necks, or thighs. He wanted to be in his room, where there was a higher chance of being left alone, but also a higher chance of being consumed. The cold moved to his waist and he was pulled on the ice king's lap. Black holes bore into his head as he pressed forward. He resisted. He couldn't afford to thaw out more. But he was forced into a possessive mash of teeth and tongue and then he was bleeding again, dribbling down his chin and onto the scarlet velvet of the man's coat. It disappeared, blending into its background. He wanted to die. It hurt. It was nothing. He tried not to interact but then he was being choked, forced to his knees in front of the seat. The ice king was silent as you couldn't breath, black holes having opened in his lungs and heart and stomach and legs, reduced them to nothing. He was nothing.

There was very little thought, as always. The powder was pink, and it burnt his nasal cavities as he took it. The pills were white, and the drink was amber. The pain burnt bright in his chest, not numbed or put out, simply put against an equally powerful force of pleasure, artificial, forced and contagious. The sky grew dark before the stars were out. He gasped softly, hands twisting the threadbare sheets as he writhed on them. He couldn't breathe, and it reminded him of the car, and suddenly his heart was in his throat and he was choking on nothing.

He had so many arms. So many arms to hold his body up. There were so many eyes, except this time there were four black holes staring at him from the back row. The drug wasn't powerful enough to push out the feelings anymore. He wished he was numb now. But those holes blinked and he pushed up the pole and he blinked away those thoughts. Attention, a temporary distraction. He had a room.


End file.
